


The Adventure of the Unfortunate Bedlamite

by cinnamon_lyons



Series: Dark Days: Holmes and Moriarty [6]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: 1880s, Gay Rights, M/M, Victorian Attitudes, Victorian Sherlock Holmes, history of psychiatry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-26
Updated: 2014-10-26
Packaged: 2018-02-21 12:51:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,408
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2468822
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cinnamon_lyons/pseuds/cinnamon_lyons
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Holmes looks into a case of apparently wrongful admission to a lunatic asylum, and Moriarty decides he and Holmes need to intensify their political efforts if they’re going to help those around them. Along the way Moriarty takes a shine to a young chap named Charlie Wootton. The story is set in the mid-1880s: I cheated a little with several details that actually happened a few years later. </p><p>NB The story is narrated by Moriarty, and he uses the language of his era, some of which (e.g. the term ‘lunatic’) would be considered offensive today but was not at the time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Adventure of the Unfortunate Bedlamite

It was a clear October morning in London Bridge and Holmes and I were at breakfast. At least, _I_ was breakfasting, Holmes – who, for some reason I couldn’t fathom had had no cases since the affair of the anaesthetist some months before - appeared to be experimenting with the possibility of surviving on a diet of cocaine and tobacco. Although it was past nine o’clock, he was clad only in a garish oriental dressing gown, from which his skinny legs protruded extensively. A pipe was clamped between his teeth, and the table in front of him was littered with tea-stained volumes and ragged newspaper clippings, surrounding the occasional used needle and glass medicine vial. It certainly made a stark contrast to my own dapper attire and neatly laid breakfast. But, by now, I was well used to my companion’s unusual habits, and paid him little heed, scanning the morning paper as I sipped my tea.

There was a rap at the door – Mrs Hardcastle was better able to remember this requirement than her predecessor, it seemed – and I called for our landlady to enter. I noticed her raise an eyebrow at the sight of Holmes, whose usually smart appearance had grown more dishevelled by the day in his lethargic state.

“There’s a visitor for you, Mr Holmes.” She announced. Holmes grunted disinterestedly.

“Send him up.” He said shortly. The housekeeper hesitated – her general philosophy may have been that of each to his own, but even she, it seemed, baulked at the idea of Holmes welcoming visitors in his current state. Then another thought intruded on her concerns.

“How did you know it were a gentleman?” She wondered. Holmes laughed, and there was at last a twinkle in his eye as he said.

“An easy surmise, Mrs H. Were my visitor female you would likely have sent her away at once, lest she be corrupted by my inappropriate attire!”

Male thought he undoubtedly was, our visitor certainly looked taken aback at the sight of Holmes, and addressed himself to me instead, in oddly accented tones, suggesting he had been abroad.

“A pleasure to make your acquaintance, sir. My name is George MacArthur.” I shook the hand he proffered with an engaging smile – for his muscular yet youthful figure was certainly not unattractive.

“James Moriarty. But I believe it is my companion, Sherlock Holmes, whose services you require.” Looking as if he would prefer to continue pretending Holmes did not exist, MacArthur gingerly extended a hand, which Holmes did not bother to take.

“Why don’t you tell me your problem, Lieutenant MacArthur?” He said. “I can see it is an urgent one, since you have only been back in England for eighteen hours.” MacArthur started, and I found myself rolling my eyes at Holmes’ theatrical display.

“I didn’t tell the housekeeper...” The soldier muttered in some confusion.

“I think even my less observant friend would have guessed from your physique and bearing that you are a military man.” Holmes said airily. “Your dress and manner suggest an officer – but your youth informs me of the only possible rank. The shade of your skin shows a recent return from a hot climate – and, since I keep an eye on the shipping schedules, I know that an army vessel from South Africa arrived in London at 3pm yesterday.” He shrugged. “Now that you know, it all seems very straightforward I’m sure.” MacArthur nonetheless continued to look rather stunned, and Holmes had to prompt him again.

“Your story?”

The Lieutenant shook himself. “Of course! I’ll get right to the point, Mr Holmes. I want you to find my brother.”

**

Lieutenant MacArthur’s brother, we were informed, was some six years older than our visitor, and had been employed at the family’s Life Assurance firm, which it was expected he would one day take over. He enjoyed his work, and wrote regularly to his younger sibling. In the last letter the Lieutenant had received, a week before he left South Africa, his brother Edmund had seemed well contented with his lot.

“So you can imagine my surprise,” Mr MacArthur concluded, “When I returned home to be informed that Eddie had disappeared just a few days after sending this – and, what’s more, that no one seemed concerned by this, nor to have any interest in finding him! Both my father and mother have told me it’s ‘for the best’, and even the servants are tight-lipped on the matter. But it’s simply not like Edmund! Something terrible must have happened to him!” Holmes pulled a face, not seeming overly interested in the matter.

“I see your concern, Mr MacArthur,” he said airily. “But you must realise how rapidly events can change in a young man’s life – a disappointment in love, perhaps?” MacArthur shook his head.

“My brother had little interest in female companionship, Mr Holmes.” He said. I glanced at Holmes with one eyebrow raised, but he didn’t seem to read into this what I did myself.

“I’m sorry, Lieutenant.” He said firmly, “But I really don’t believe this case requires my attention. There is no evidence of foul play…” But MacArthur, whose cheeks had become suffused with bright spots of colour betraying his emotional state, burst out.

“But I hear he is in the madhouse – and it’s a crime to keep him there, so it is!” Holmes nodded smugly, looking rather pleased at this revelation.

“Do you know which one?” MacArthur, rather embarrassed by his outburst, mutely shook his head.

“I heard my Aunt speak of it to my mother, but my pleas for information have fallen on deaf ears.” The young Lieutenant looked close to tears. “Oh, Mr Holmes, you must find him and set him free! My brother is eccentric in the company he keeps, no one knows that better than I, but Lord knows he is not mad.”

When MacArthur had furnished us with details of where to contact him, Holmes dressed and shaved with great rapidity, while I sat on the bed watching him.

“I knew the fellow was holding something back,” He said, almost gleefully. “How do these people ever imagine I can help them if they don’t tell me the truth?”

“There are few who possess your capacity for bluntness, my dear Holmes.” I reminded him, “Society is a minefield of convention – you know that.” I found myself frowning, already concerned as to where this case appeared to be leading. “Do you think Edmund MacArthur has been certified insane for his sexual habits?” I asked. Holmes shrugged.

“Have you read Krafft-Ebing’s recent volume, James?” I shook my head, and he remarked. “You should – he has a name that would suit you!” He laughed, then looked a little more serious.1 “Still, it may be different in Austria, but it is unusual enough in this country for sexual perversion to come within the remit of the lunacy laws. Our courts generally prefer to pronounce a man criminal rather than mad. And even the recent claim of one physician that a young lady who chose to live unmarried with her lover had committed ‘social suicide’ and was therefore to be considered insane was over-ruled in less than a fortnight.”2 He pulled on his coat. “But I shall make my investigations all the same.” He paused in the doorway, looking back at me. “You might entertain yourself with _Psychopathia Sexualis_ while I’m gone – it’s on my desk. You read German, do you not?”

**

Krafft-Ebing’s work proved an entertaining, and at times titillating, but nonetheless frustrating read. His insistence that the sexual connection between man and woman formed the bedrock of civilization did not surprise me in the least, but his endless examples of weakly Urnings, willing to submit themselves to the all-knowing doctor for ‘cure’ of their unhappy condition infuriated me. But perhaps it was the sadist in me (the term Holmes had alluded to earlier) that made me wish to do them violence! The alienist3 himself seemed to believe such men should not be punished, but instead taught to control themselves and avoid indulging in their pernicious habits. Still, it was some consolation to see that certain of his correspondents agreed with my own contention that our desires were perfectly natural, and that not all accepted his ‘treatment’ unless it was legally enforced.

It was late when Holmes returned, no longer wearing his smart clothing of before, but instead the garb of a common tradesman. He nodded at the volume in front of me.

“How did you get on with the good doctor and his merry band of Urnings?” He asked, and my expression undoubtedly provided all the answer he needed, for he laughed, and then added. “It may surprise you to hear that I have this evening been making love to the fairer sex myself – perhaps Krafft-Ebing’s intervention has cured me?” I rolled my eyes.

“You have been exchanging kisses for information?” I asked wearily.4 

“It really wasn’t so unpleasant as you make it sound!” He insisted. “Dear Georgina is quite a gossip, it seems. Had Lieutenant MacArthur been less anguished in his attempts to extract information from her, I have no doubt she would have imparted as much as she did to Francis Carfax, the Grocer’s new assistant.”

“You have found out where Edmund MacArthur is?” I queried, wishing Holmes’ delight in his own cleverness didn’t so often prevent him getting to the point.

“Indeed.” He informed me, his expression growing grimmer. “Tomorrow, Moriarty, we pay a visit to Brook House.”

 **

Brook House was a smallish private asylum in the rapidly expanding town of Hackney, in the north-eastern suburbs. Originally a country mansion, it nonetheless possessed all the grandeur of the modern county madhouses, built in architectural homage to the humanitarian spirit of our age. The grounds were large and well-tended, and the surrounding walls low. Our carriage took us right up the drive and, as we passed through the landscaped gardens, we saw a group of well-dressed lunatics enjoying a game of croquet. 

As we descended from the cab, the main doors opened, and a servant hurried to meet us.

“Mr Holmes?” He enquired. “We received your letter of yesterday afternoon. The superintendent is expecting you. Come this way, please.”

We were ushered into the opulent hallway, well hung with paintings and remarkably quiet, and then led along a corridor to the doctor’s rooms.

Dr Stapleton was a tall, confident man: a few years older than Holmes and I, but still well before middle age. He had a carefully trimmed moustache and a pleasant, open expression, and he shook our hands warmly as we entered and introduced ourselves.

“It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, gentlemen. Sidney, some tea if please?” The attendant nodded and retired, and we seated ourselves on the long, low couch by the window. Sunlight dappled the bookcases opposite, and I briefly wondered whether _Psychopathia Sexualis_ was among the many volumes contained therein.

“I’ll get straight to the point, Dr Stapleton.” Holmes leaned forward, his blue eyes piercingly sharp. We are here to visit Edmund MacArthur, and I wondered whether you might furnish us with your own opinion of his case.”

The alienist looked a little taken aback: luckily for him, we were interrupted by the servant re-entering with a tea-tray, giving him a few minutes to compose himself while the refreshments were distributed. Eventually, when we were once again alone, he spoke hesitantly.

“Mr Holmes, I’m afraid it is against the codes of my profession to discuss my patients with anyone save the friends5 responsible for their certificates.” His tone was apologetic, but firm.

“And that friend would have been his father, would it not?” I didn’t see Stapleton react to Holmes’ words but Holmes himself nodded, as if his question had been answered.

“Your discretion is admirable, Dr Stapleton.” He continued. “Perhaps, in the absence of any personal particulars, we might converse on a few purely medical matters: one professional to another, as it were?”

“I should enjoy that very much.” The doctor looked relieved that Holmes wasn’t going to be difficult. He also, to my mind, appeared a little starved for intellectual companionship.

“How many inmates do you have here at Brook House?” Holmes enquired.

“Forty.” The doctor answered without hesitation. “Twenty-three males and seventeen females.”

“All certified?”

“Most are.” The doctor agreed. “A small number are voluntary boarders – either they have re-admitted themselves following an earlier illness and recovery, or the Commissioners have deemed them recovered but they do not wish to leave.”

“The Commissioners?” I asked, clearly not so up on Lunacy Law as my companions were.

“The Commissioners in Lunacy, Moriarty.” Holmes sounded a little impatient. “The government’s asylum inspectors.” He paused a second, and I wondered if an idea had occurred to him. “When were you last inspected, doctor?” Stapleton apparently saw nothing untoward in Holmes’ enquiry.

“We have had no visit this year as yet.” He admitted. “But they came in the autumn and were pleased by the absence of restraint on our wards, and the general conditions the patients were under. I know some institutions have abandoned non-restraint in recent years, but here at Brook House we pride ourselves on maintaining the doctrine to the letter!” Holmes nodded approvingly.

“And what sorts of cases do you care for?” The doctor frowned, considering.

“Just over half are afflicted with mania. We have a few demented and delusional cases, and the rest are melancholics. Mostly chronic, in an institution like this one, of course.”

“Of course.” Holmes agreed. “Acute cases in families of means often remain at home.”

“Sometimes we board out keepers.” Dr Stapleton added. “Although, generally, my staff here is not big enough to do so; however we can recommend alternatives for our clients.”

“And what of the more recently recognised conditions?” Holmes asked finally. “I see that you have Krafft-Ebing on your bookshelf. What are your thoughts on his ‘antipathic sexuality’?” As usual, Holmes was more keenly observant than I. I found myself leaning forward, gazing over my tea cup, intrigued as to how the doctor would answer. His face reddened slightly, and he put his own cup down with a clink.

“I have had a few cases of inversion in my private consulting practice.6 Highly unpleasant, of course, but also very sad for the gentlemen and their families.”

“None in the asylum?” The alienist looked from Holmes to myself and back again, unsettled by this close scrutiny.

“None in the asylum.” He repeated, a little hesitantly. “It is not usually a matter for certification.”

Holmes nodded again, getting to his feet.

“Thank you for your time, doctor.” He said warmly. “We will see ourselves out.”

**

“He’s lying.” I said to Holmes as we returned to our carriage, a crisp wind having created a chill in the previously clear autumn air. “He knew you referred to MacArthur.” Holmes raised an eyebrow.

“Of course he knew. But whether he is lying or no remains to be seen. You admit, surely, that enjoying the intimate company of other men is not a sure preventive against insanity?” I scowled a little, realising that as usual he was right. 

“You mean MacArthur’s certification may have had nothing to do with his being a sodomite?” Holmes smiled, rather superciliously.

“You see, James, you must learn not to let your assumptions run away with you! Now, I think we shall drive through Islington on the way home. There is another gentleman that the fair Georgina mentioned whom we might pay a visit.”

“MacArthur’s lover?” I guessed eagerly. Holmes smiled mysteriously.

“Perhaps. We shall see.” 

My suggestion was quickly confirmed after we dismounted outside a public house on the Caledonian Road and Holmes strode confidently inside. Behind the bar, a lad a few years our junior was drying glasses, during an apparent lull in custom. He was an attractive youth, clean-shaven with a mop of brown hair and a round, pleasant face. When he caught me staring at him, he winked cheekily.

“And when can I do you gennlemen for?” He asked, in broad cockney tones. I couldn’t help but grin back, though Holmes’ expression remained serious.

“We’ll take three large brandies.” He said. The lad raised his eyebrows.

“Three?” He repeated, his tone suggesting he had nonetheless understood Holmes’ insinuation. Holmes leaned forward on the bar.

“Well, Mr Wootton, we were hoping that you’d care to join us.” The lad didn’t look fazed in the least.

“You can call me Charlie.” He said over his shoulder as he turned to reach for the brandy. “And might I enquire as to you gennlemen’s names? If you’re to be my drinking companions, that is.”

“Sherlock Holmes.” Holmes said, rather stiffly. He opened his mouth to introduce me, but I beat him to it.

“James.” I said, flashing Charlie my most charming smile, leaving him in no doubt as to the reason for my informality. “James Moriarty.” Holmes rolled his eyes, perching himself on a bar stool and taking a healthy gulp of his drink.

“I’m sure there’ll be plenty of time for you to get familiar with Mr Wootton later, James.” He made a point of not using the lad’s Christian name. “But first I’d like to ask him a few questions.”

Charlie cocked his head, leaning casually against the counter.

“And wot might they be, Mr ‘olmes?”

“How well do you know Edmund MacArthur?” Holmes cut right to the case. Again, Charlie took this in his stride.

“Eddie, eh? I was wondering who’d a recommended me!” He grinned, teeth flashing. “I could get to know you just as well if you’d like, sir.” At his last words, his eyes met mine again. Holmes ignored the comment.

“So it was a business arrangement?” He enquired. Charlie shrugged.

“Nah, not with Eddie. E’s a regular brick, ‘e is. I ain’t averse to makin’ a bit of tin, of course, but mostly I just likes a good time.” He drained his glass, as if to prove a point.

“When did you last see Mr MacArthur?” Holmes persisted in his rather dreary questioning. Charlie cocked his head, thinking, and began to refill our glasses while he did so.

“A few weeks back?” He suggested carelessly. “A month at the outside.” Holmes drummed his fingers a little impatiently on the bar.

“Can you be more specific?” He asked. “A great deal is at stake.” The lad shrugged, not seeming to mind Holmes’ obvious irritation. His frank, open manner must win him many friends, I thought.

“All right, it was the day after the cattle market. So it must ‘a been a Friday. And I been ‘ere the last two Fridays, so the one afore that. Near on three weeks ago.” He seemed pleased at having worked this out, and drained his glass a second time.

“Did Mr MacArthur seem unusual at all?” Holmes enquired. Charlie frowned.

“Now you mention it, ‘e was a little out of sorts.” He admitted. “’E’s always been an excitable sort of feller, but that day it was like...” He frowned, searching for words. “Like it was the last day of ‘is life!” He concluded at last. Holmes looked piercingly at the lad, who realised he was being asked to elaborate. He waved a hand expansively. “He seemed distressed.” The boy went on. “But ‘e nonetheless wanted to do everything – go everywhere. We was rushin’ around, to the theatre, to the music hall – to bed, o’ course.” He grinned at this last. “Like everythin’ ‘ad to ‘appen on that one day.” He frowned again, his voice wistful. “I asked ‘im what the hurry was. An’ ‘e said ‘e might not get another chance! But ‘e wouldn’t say no further than that. I reckoned there’d been some trouble at ‘ome, though.” Charlie tilted his head, wondering whether Holmes might have the answers. “When I didn’t see ‘im again, I wondered if he’d been forced to marry. I looked for an announcement in the papers, but I never seen one.” Holmes nodded.

“It would surprise you, then, to learn that Mr MacArthur was in the madhouse?” Charlie gasped. 

“He can’t be! What, for carryin’ on with gents?” Holmes’ impassive face didn’t betray anything.

“That remains to be seen.” He said. “I have some further enquiries to make, so I’m afraid I must leave you.” He wasn’t looking at me, but I could sense he was smirking as he added. “Moriarty, I imagine Mr Wootton is feeling rather distressed at the news he has received. Perhaps you might stay to comfort him?” I grinned at the lad, who winked rather salaciously back as Holmes swept out of the tavern without another word.

**

Charlie Wootton was an eager young fellow, and I greatly enjoyed the hour or so spent in his company in the dirty little attic room above the tavern that he called home. 

“I best be gettin’ back to work.” The lad sighed at last, though he made no move to leave, his unruly curls resting on my naked shoulder as we lay, close together, on the tiny bedstead.

“Mmm...” I murmured, running a hand down the curves of his youthful body. “However do you get away with these indiscretions, Charlie?” My fingers trailed over his buttocks, as the lad grinned at me.

“I ain’t no gentleman.” He said simply. “No one expects me to be respectable. Not like Eddie – or you, I’ll warrant.” I shrugged.

“I’ve never had a problem. But perhaps things are changing?” Charlie looked sad.

“Seems like it.” He said mournfully. “I knows of two fellers in the past year who’s now wearin’ the broad arrow for sodomy.7 And one as ‘ad to leave the country to avoid the scandal. Maybe Eddie’s got off lightly?” I found myself getting angry, thinking back to the carefree nature of my student days, which suddenly seemed like another world.

“Holmes will help him.” I said fiercely. “It’s a small thing, perhaps, but we’ve helped many men like us, one by one.” Charlie looked up at me, his blue eyes wide and trusting.

“You think you can make a difference?” He asked. I frowned.

“I _must_ think it!” I said. “Isn’t change in the air? The Socialists, the women’s movement – can’t we campaign to change things for the better for us too?”

“Politics is a luxury most of us can’t afford.” Charlie said sagely. “But if you can?” His expression was all the entreaty I needed, and I nodded fiercely as I bent my head to kiss him.

 **

I was still fired up with revolutionary fervour when I returned home but, as was his wont, Holmes was out investigating until the early hours, so I had no one with whom I might share my determination. When I tried to broach the subject in the morning, my words fell on deaf ears as he busied himself with face powders, wigs and dyes, expertly changing his appearance for a purpose I knew better than to attempt to guess.

“I’m close to solving the case, James.” Was all he would gleefully admit. “Perhaps you might contact George MacArthur and travel with him to Brook House for 2.30? This time I feel sure I can gain us admittance.”

I did as I was bade, realising that at least the case would soon be over, and I might stand more chance of interesting Holmes in my vaguely formed plots for legal reform.

George MacArthur was clearly nervous as our carriage drew up outside Brook House. He was slow to descend from the coach, and then stood in front of the Italianate facade, staring silently up at the building, perhaps imagining what lay within. But then Dr Stapleton himself hurried out to greet us, taking MacArthur warmly by the hand.

“Mr MacArthur, I’m so glad you have come.” He said. “We certainly would never have wanted to prevent you visiting your brother, believe me. It was only when Mr Nairne, the Lunacy Commissioner, told us that your brother particularly desired your company that we realised you were in the country at all.”

“The Commissioner visited today?” I asked in surprise, and then realised the foolishness of my words when Stapleton turned to fix me with a suspicious look.

“Yes, Mr Moriarty, it _is_ rather a coincidence, isn’t it?” But then his expression softened, and it seemed he was not angered by the situation. “Mr Nairne is still with us, Mr MacArthur, so you can ask him about it yourself, if you like. They are in the drawing room, if you would care to follow me.”

Of course, Mr Nairne was Holmes – barely recognisable even to me with his dark hair, shadowed eyes and re-shaped nose. He spoke in a clipped Scotch accent as we entered, striding forward with hand outstretched.

“Mr MacArthur, I presume?” But George MacArthur’s attention was focused on a pale, slightly dishevelled figure, whose long-limbed frame was perched awkwardly on a couch to the right.

“Eddie!” He gasped, “I thought I’d never see you again!” Ignoring Holmes’ outstretched hand, he rushed to embrace his brother, who smiled a sad smile 

“Melodramatic to the last, eh George?” He said indulgently, but nonetheless rose to clasp his brother warmly.

“Why did you not write and tell me?” George said plaintively, finally drawing away to take a seat beside his elder sibling. Edmund hung his head.

“I was ashamed.” He said hesitantly. “Things have been difficult at home since you’ve been away, Georgie.” His gaze flicked up to the doctor, in some embarrassment. The man grasped his charge’s meaning.

“I’ll leave you to your privacy.” He said kindly. “Mr Nairne?” He glanced at Holmes, expecting him to accompany him. Edmund MacArthur shook his head 

“Mr Nairne has heard my story.” He said. “I should like him to stay.” Dr Stapleton looked surprised, but nonetheless nodded and left the room.

“I don’t think Stapleton has realised who Mr Nairne is.” MacArthur confided to his brother. “Of course, he knows there must be a connection. But Mr Nairne looks so unlike the detective you hired...” George MacArthur’s eyes widened in some surprise, and he looked over at the commissioner.

“Mr Holmes?!” He gasped. Holmes grinned, instantly more recognisable.

“Of course.” He said, in his usual tones. “It was the only way I could be assured of an audience with your brother.”

“Thank you!” George’s words were fervent. Then he turned to his brother, taking his hand. “But Eddie, you must leave this place with me. They cannot prevent you!” Edmund MacArthur shook his head.

“I’m sorry, George. As I told you, there have been many troubles recently. I know that I should have acted with more discretion, but I was very foolish. Sodomy may no longer be punishable by death, but it is still a crime. A scandal like this would ruin the family, you know that!” George swallowed hard, not sure how to react to his brother’s admission.

“But why should anyone care?!” He insisted, tears in his eyes. Edmund squeezed his brother’s hand.

“The police found me in a compromising situation.” He admitted awkwardly. “They insisted that a trial must be brought. Father asked if there could be any alternative, begged them not to ruin the family name. I had been taking narcotics, and my behaviour was so erratic that they suggested an asylum. The certificates were signed that very day. I had one last night of freedom, and drove up to Brook House the next morning.” A tear trickled down George MacArthur’s cheek 

“But you are not mad!” He insisted. Edmund shrugged.

“Maybe not. Or perhaps my failure to change my behaviour when I knew what it could do to those I loved proves that I am. Is my folly any different from the ramblings of my neighbour here, who firmly believes he is the ruler of the world, but can nonetheless converse eloquently on literature and plays a fiendish game of chess?”

“Yes!” I suddenly blurted out fervently; startling all those present, for it seemed they had forgotten I was there. “It _is_ different! Society must accept it!” MacArthur nodded.

“I understand why you and your friend Holmes here have taken an interest in my case.” He said. “But we cannot change the world by making ourselves martyrs. Or by destroying those we love.” His gaze returned to his brother, pleading with him to accept his decision. “It is comfortable here. I have my books, I have companions and the surroundings are pleasant. It really is not so bad. A madhouse is an easy place to gain the acceptance of others. And Dr Stapleton is far more sympathetic than you might imagine.”

I scowled mutinously, thinking MacArthur weak to refuse to confront the conventions that had led to his confinement. George, too, shook his head sadly.

“I see I cannot change your mind.” He said mournfully. Edmund squeezed his brother’s shoulder.

“It won’t be forever, Georgie.” He reassured him. “Just long enough for this to blow over. Stapleton thinks the committee will soon recommend my discharge, but assures me that I can remain as a voluntary patient until things have settled once more.”

“At least I’m able to visit you.” George sighed. He turned to Holmes. “I have you to thank for that, Mr Holmes.”

**

Holmes had been formal in our leave-taking of the MacArthur brothers, and his brow remained furrowed in some seriousness as we left the asylum. I knew he was angered by the outcome of the case, as I was, but I also knew that it was better to wait for him to speak than try and force the matter. Indeed, it seemed speech was not the first thing on Holmes’ mind, for as soon as we were back in the carriage for our long journey south, he grabbed hold of me rather roughly, pressing his lips against mine, one hand gripping the back of my head as his tongue invaded my mouth 

Feeling as if our acts were a kind of demonstration against the treatment of men like Edmund MacArthur, I returned his kisses furiously, hands pulling at the layers of his clothing, desperate to feel his flesh against mine. The small enclosed space of the carriage added to the frenzied nature of our meeting, and elbows were jarred and knees bumped without a care as we grappled with each other, our erections rubbing together through the tight fabric of our trousers.

I think Holmes planned to bugger me that day, but such was the fever of my own desire that, for once, he didn’t really stand a chance. I had his trousers around his ankles almost before he knew it, his body folded rather uncomfortably over the carriage seat. Nonetheless, I caught a glimpse of the lust shining in his eyes as he gazed up at me before I rolled him over, spreading his buttocks with both hands, fingers expertly loosening him before penetration.

As our cab bounced over the London streets, windows shuttered to prying eyes, I guided my cock between Holmes’ buttocks with a groan, easing myself into his warm, willing flesh. I heard Holmes gasp beneath me as a jolt of the coach forced me suddenly deeper, and this encouraged me to thrust eagerly, hands gripping his waist as I fucked him furiously. The movement of the carriage, and our fevered desire, meant that neither of us lasted long. Holmes’ moans increased in regularity and volume, and I found myself screwing my eyes shut in a futile effort to prolong the pleasure before I spent myself inside him with a groan.

Afterwards, we sprawled, half-clad, across the back seat of the carriage, still over a mile from home, but calmed by our illicit encounter.

“We must do something.” I said finally. There was no need for me to explain what I meant. Holmes nodded.

“I’ve been thinking the same thing myself. We would need to recruit like-minded souls, in the first instance, of course.”

“Perhaps your cases will provide a fruitful first line of enquiry?” I suggested. “All those you have helped must know of others who would be sympathetic to our cause.”

“Indeed. And I’m sure you have just as many contacts from those disreputable clubs that you pretend to no longer frequent.” Holmes’ eyes twinkled as he said this, but I ignored his ribbing.

“Soon we’ll have our own Sodomite Army.”8 I grinned, and he nodded.

“We shall make quite a splash, I feel!” And, with that, he kissed me again.

**Author's Note:**

> The background details about the 1880s asylum system is historically accurate (I should know, I wrote my PhD thesis on the topic). Brook House was a real private asylum in Hackney. The Commissioners in Lunacy became responsible for asylum inspection across England and Wales in 1845, primarily intended as a safeguard against wrongful confinement, a widespread fear in the Victorian era (most people were certified at the request of their relatives, who it was thought might have ulterior motives for getting them out of the way). A patient had to be certified by two different doctors, who didn’t have a financial interest in the institution concerned. The Victorian era also saw the introduction of the ‘non-restraint’ system in England and Wales in the 1840s (most asylums abandoned all forms of mechanical restraint, such as strait-jackets) and widespread efforts to make asylums as domestic and home-like as possible (so-called ‘moral treatment’). Although life in an asylum was certainly not as pleasant as the reformers claimed, most people – as Moriarty does – saw them as a philanthropic system testament to a civilised society.
> 
> 1 Psychopathia Sexualis by Richard von Krafft-Ebing – essential research for any Victorian slash writer – was actually first published in 1886, and ‘sadism’ (taken from the name of the author, the Marquis de Sade) wasn’t included until a later edition in the 1890s. But the dates are so close I couldn’t resist mentioning it all the same! Holmes’ recommendation echoes the suggestion to Watson to read Winwood Reade’s ‘The Martyrdom of Man’ in ‘The Sign of Four’ (I also read this for my thesis).  
> 2 Again I’m playing around with dates, as the specific case I’m thinking of happened in 1895: Edith Lanchester (mother of Elsa Lanchester, of ‘Bride of Frankenstein’ fame) was certified by the elderly doctor George Fielding Blandford, who was castigated by the press for his actions. Lanchester was rapidly released, and continued to live unmarried with her partner. Holmes could be referring to a different case, though, of course!  
> 3 Alienist was the usual nineteenth-century title for a psychiatrist (mad-doctor would be another colloquial name, albeit not one physicians would tend to use themselves).  
> 4 Conan Doyle’s Holmes behaves similarly, of course, in ‘The Adventure of Charles Augustus Milverton’.  
> 5 In nineteenth-century parlance (and before), ‘friends’ referred to those close to a person, most often but not always blood relatives.  
> 6 While Holmes uses Krafft-Ebing’s term for homosexuality, Stapleton prefers the usual English medical name at this time – sexual inversion - later made popular by the writer Havelock Ellis.  
> 7 i.e. ‘in prison’. The ‘broad arrow’ refers to convicts’ uniforms.  
> 8 Moriarty’s words here are a play on the name of the Salvation Army: frequently in the press at this time – and the regular butt of jokes – for their wild religious fervour (often compared to madness).


End file.
